"It's all right," snapped Nika, pressing a hand against Aryol's chest, lingering slightly and gently.
Stilling the young soldier's progress.
"Stand down, comrade."
He turned his head, holding a gloved finger out, delicately, like the antlers of a butterfly.
"And you too, Polya."
Nika was silent for several moments, eyes locked to the flame soldier's fathomless, flat gaze.
"Of course I disappoint you," he said softly. "The world disappoints you. You've made sure of that, haven't you."
He looked down, tucking in his shirt and buckling his belt slowly, deliberately.
Liadov began to walk forward, slowly, unrelenting.
"No one would have disliked Dmitri, the boy. The man. But due to your own self-loathing, you couldn't believe that. You couldn't face the uncertainty. At least, if you were a villain, you would know that they would hate you, and know that it was justified. Your fear of being ostracized drove you to commit terrible acts. You became the vile creature you felt that you were inside. Did it serve you? That pre-emptive strike?"
He shook his head, and his sigh echoed hollowly between the tanks.
"And I disappoint you. You started building up to this moment your whole life. You started making sure of that at an early age. Becoming what you did. You come to us like this now, a murderer, an unrepentant miasnik- and you can be certain of rejection. And in turn, you feel vindicated that the world hates you, like you always surmised that it would."
Liadov tossed his hair back, out of his eyes. Leveling his brows.
"You want me to suck you off, comrade? Really?"
They were face to face now.
Nika dropped to his knees, abruptly.
His hand shot out, and grabbed the belt of the unknown soldier's uniform, jerking it forward roughly as he ripped it open.
"Will that heal whatever sick black blight powders your orchard?"
His hand crept over the murderer's groin, seizing slowly, leaning in, eyes icy and piercing.
no subject
Stilling the young soldier's progress.
"Stand down, comrade."
He turned his head, holding a gloved finger out, delicately, like the antlers of a butterfly.
"And you too, Polya."
Nika was silent for several moments, eyes locked to the flame soldier's fathomless, flat gaze.
"Of course I disappoint you," he said softly. "The world disappoints you. You've made sure of that, haven't you."
He looked down, tucking in his shirt and buckling his belt slowly, deliberately.
Liadov began to walk forward, slowly, unrelenting.
"No one would have disliked Dmitri, the boy. The man. But due to your own self-loathing, you couldn't believe that. You couldn't face the uncertainty. At least, if you were a villain, you would know that they would hate you, and know that it was justified. Your fear of being ostracized drove you to commit terrible acts. You became the vile creature you felt that you were inside. Did it serve you? That pre-emptive strike?"
He shook his head, and his sigh echoed hollowly between the tanks.
"And I disappoint you. You started building up to this moment your whole life. You started making sure of that at an early age. Becoming what you did. You come to us like this now, a murderer, an unrepentant miasnik- and you can be certain of rejection. And in turn, you feel vindicated that the world hates you, like you always surmised that it would."
Liadov tossed his hair back, out of his eyes. Leveling his brows.
"You want me to suck you off, comrade? Really?"
They were face to face now.
Nika dropped to his knees, abruptly.
His hand shot out, and grabbed the belt of the unknown soldier's uniform, jerking it forward roughly as he ripped it open.
"Will that heal whatever sick black blight powders your orchard?"
His hand crept over the murderer's groin, seizing slowly, leaning in, eyes icy and piercing.
"Will it make you whole? Will it cure your mind?"
Liadov's voice raised, sharp and demanding.
"Well? Tell me, Dmitri. Is that all it takes?"